


tranquil

by monado



Series: callisto [2]
Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Gen, Mindless Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-08
Updated: 2018-08-08
Packaged: 2019-06-23 19:43:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15613623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monado/pseuds/monado
Summary: A routine (when they can make it one.)





	tranquil

**Author's Note:**

> it's really hot. and mgr takes place in 2018.
> 
> if you're looking for substance: i am so sorry

“You sure you don't want to turn back?”

  
A _yes_ is wheezed, throat cleared, and then repeated as if nothing had just happened.

  
Sam’s machismo is an endless source of entertainment. Raiden hums a flat note, redirecting his attention to the path in front of him and grinning. He waits for Sam to glare at him, but it seems like all of his energy is being put into keeping up appearances.

  
Raiden glances at the temperature reading on his HUD -- it’s climbed to thirty-eight celsius, now -- and ups his pace the tiniest bit. The challenge goes unacknowledged; Sam adjusts his speed without a word. Raiden patiently enjoys the scenery of the trees passing them by until Sam finally breaks.

  
“Jack,” he rasps, stopped and doubled over.

  
Raiden puts his knuckles on his hip. He’s turned down his sensitivity to the wind, but he can tell that it’s like standing in front of a blowdrier. “About time.”

  
That earns him a dirty look. Raiden grins. Sam’s covered in sweat, head to toe, a gross sheen that reminds Raiden that his own body isn't all that bad.

  
Sam’s still huffing and puffing so he continues. “I thought you'd call it quits a while back. It’s like you have a death wish.”

  
“Hey!” The outburst is dulled by the motion of wiping his forehead and flicking the collected dew off his hand, to which Raiden scowls. “I consider myself health-conscious.”

  
That almost punches a laugh out of his voicebox. “Right, it's not like I've been monitoring your lifesigns for heat stroke this entire time.”

  
“Gotta get your exercise, Jack.” Sam glances up to grimace theatrically at Raiden. “And, hey, you didn't even ask me for permission! _Invasive_.” At his ensuing eye-roll, Sam’s cheeks stretch into a grin, one Raiden finds only slightly less leery than usual.

  
“Alright, tough guy. Need me to carry you home, or are you good?”

  
They turn around and start back the way they came, walking this time. “The day you carry me like a damsel in distress is the day world peace is achieved.” Raiden snorts.

  
They walk, the quiet morning buoying the air around them. It’s early, but not early enough for the sunrise, and not late enough for the din of civilization to really start for the day. It's a pocket of time Raiden finds peace in.

  
Sam pushes his hair back and it stays in place, slick. Raiden wrinkles his nose and reflexively reaches up to check the status of his own hair, before remembering _right, claw hands_. That and he can't feel with precision anyway. It was never important, not when juxtaposed with all the other enhancements he could get downloaded or re-wired in. He supposes it's not important anyway. No need to get decadent.

  
“Hmm, Jack?” Raiden turns to his running buddy, who’s turned towards a café in the distance, visible between two trees. “Think that place is open?”

  
Raiden bristles, panic sparking somewhere within him. “I can't go into coffee shops looking like _this_.” He has minimal armour on, as a precaution. No one could mistake his body for anything other than what it is.

  
Sam levels a look at him, somewhere between amused and tolerant, and entirely condescending. “The suggestion was mainly for me. I can get you something if you want.”

  
He furrows his eyebrows, beating back the twinge of guilt. “I’m fine,” he mumbles, and is suddenly conscious of how pathetic he sounds. “Just -- lemme check.” A quick internet search (through a private secure search engine -- thanks Courtney) tells him the shop is open. “Yeah, go ahead. I'll just wait here.”

  
A couple moments pass as Sam stares him down, a flat look on his face, when finally he nods. “I'll be quick as a bunny” is his parting line before he saunters off down the sun-baked path.

  
Raiden wanders forward a few paces, absently drifting to the fork in the path Sam’s taken towards the sparse commerce area. They're holed up in suburban Quebec, at the moment, and as much as Raiden tires of country-hopping, he can't help but find solace in the peace and quiet here. God knows he isn't allowed much of it in his everyday life.

  
His eyes have drifted closed when he hears the door to the coffee shop. He pulls his eyes back open, watching Sam make the trek back over to their little hiking trail. The sun beats down on his path, and Raiden notes with satisfaction that he can't wipe his forehead because his hands are full. And then notes again that his hands are, in fact, full.

  
There's a spring in his step; Raiden gives him the blankest stare he can muster. Sam smiles when they make eye contact, balancing a drinks tray on his prosthetic and paper bags in the crook of his other arm. There are four drinks.

  
As soon as he’s within hearing range, Raiden gets his quip out. “You know, I wasn't expecting you to go for the six-A.M buffet,” he says, voice carrying, and Sam just grins.

  
“Live a little, Jack!” Sam uses his name altogether too much, he thinks. 

  
He immediately hands Raiden the drinks, who holds the tray dutifully as Sam sidesteps into the shade to check all the bags. The crinkling of the paper is disturbing the tranquil air big-time, but Raiden finds he doesn't mind. “Ah!” Sam pulls a donut out of the winning bag triumphantly. “This one reminded me of you! So here’s to you.”

  
He takes a munch, ignoring Raiden’s what in favour of being way too enthusiastic over coffee shop pastry. He glances towards Raiden. “How much can you taste?”

  
Raiden blinks for a moment. The truth is, he can't taste much at all (lost his real tongue alongside his jaw) nor is he supposed to eat much (artificial stomach doesn't do him any favours) but he does have the equipment. “Enough,” he settles on as an answer.

  
Sam holds out the donut, and Raiden takes it, quietly noticing how big his metal hand is in comparison. The donut is too sweet. “It’s too sweet.”

  
“Really? It's kind of strange, honestly. You would expect a sour cream donut to be, you know, sour.” He goes back to digging through his bags.

  
“Hang on-- excuse me?”

  
He smirks. “What? I call them as I see them. Sour cream for sour Jack.”

  
Raiden can't help himself; he grins. “Hey!”

  
Sam pulls out a cookie and bites into it, smiling as he starts to walk back the way they came.

  
They spend the rest of the leisurely stroll back swapping pastries. Sam pawns the raisin bran muffin off on Raiden because he “can't really taste it anyway” and they don't get anywhere near finishing the frozen drinks before they melt into nothing but syrup and Raiden is comfortable.

  
A warmth separate from the oppressive heat presses down around him, and he wonders if maybe, in the little moments, he's allowed to feel good.

 

 


End file.
